Warren sat under the shelter of the oak up on the cliff overshadowing a town he resided near, Creole. It was one of those warm windy nights with clear skies and stars from the heavens that told you the stories. Everyone of them has a different story, much like humans. Warren looked down at the town from up on his vantage point, studying his neighbors walking around finishing up last minute business before dinner with their families by the hearths. He watched as candles were lit and others blew out, as fishermen came in with fish and children were put to bed. A cool wind passed by caressing his hair in its hands. This was his favorite spot to be, a place he used to hide at when he was younger. Looking back, he knew there was no where to hide up here if anyone came looking, but most people didn't bother to climb the cliffs these days. They became too busy for nature, too busy worrying about what happened next, too busy about going home and making sure their families were safe. Some forgot pleasure altogether and many believed if they spent a second in leisure, their children's futures would not be secure. The adversary was getting too close and this was their homeland they were protecting. People dropped pleasure for conquer. It was all about numbers now. How many square miles any given kingdom had, how many farms were producing cheese, and what the population was of any given town. Any people forgot how to live peacefully amongst themselves. Society was in a rut from this war and money was scarce. Townsfolk started stealing from each other, slaying each other for an apple or a pouch with a few silver coins. This generation was lost: lost in temptation; lost in corruption.
Watching over his town, Warren heard footsteps from behind. He quickly rose to his feet and spun around. His hand reached for the hilt of his blade. Looking down at a boy, his hand released its grip from his sword. The boy was holding a rusty, dull broad sword that was probably as big as him. He was a skinny boy with no meat on him. His hair was greasy and dangled over his eyes. He wore peasant's clothing: rags for pants and a white nightgown shirt with worn leather stitching on the neck of it.
"I ask you for your purse!" The boy let one hand go from his broad sword to point at the pouch by Warren's side and almost dropped the sword. The shear weight of the sword encumbered the boy greatly.
"And I must decline in giving it to you." Warren said this scratching his almost graying hair. He was getting older, but these past few years have been his most physical and enduring.
"Then I shall be forced to strike you!" The boy yelled loud enough for the town below them to hear, but then the townsfolk were too worried about their own matters to be bothered.
"Your plan is to kill me for my gold?" Warren was not surprised. Many have attempted to slay others for their monetary possessions in this age.
"If I must!" The boy was anxious now. Beads of sweat ran down his forehead. He was nervous and afraid of what came next. Warren figured he had never killed before by the way his body shook.
"Do as you must..." Warren turned around and looked toward the town below him again. Inhaling and feeling the oxygen feel his lungs, he closed his eyes and relied on his ears. He listened.
He heard footsteps, they were heavy and clumsy. The boy was running toward him with the sword.
Warren exhaled and said a quick prayer to his Lord. "This boy does not know what he is doing. He is young. I pray I may find hope in him."
The boy let out a cry as he swung his sword directly as Warren's back. Warren put his hand on the broach of his cape and unclipped it. He spun as the boy was in range with his sword, and Warren opened his eyes. He looked directly into the boy's eyes and saw the fear that existed. He threw his cape at the child and it knocked the child to the ground, his broad sword fell. The child shuffled under the cape for a minute and then pulled it off of him. He rose and drew his sword toward Warren again. He pulled back and thrust his arms forward, positive he would strike Warren in the chest and finish him there.
But Warren stepped aside in a manner as not to disturb or alarm even the dirt on the ground. The boy stumbled from the miss as the weight of the sword pulled him off balance. The sword dug into the ground and the boy fell, tearing his pants at the knee. He rose, groaning, and quickly tried to retract the sword from the earth but the earth was unyielding.
"Where are your parents, boy?"
The boy was unresponsive, except for the occasional grunt as he attempted to remove his sword from its prison in the soil.
"Are you alone?"
The soil exploded upward as the sword was freed. The boy's arms rose up to swing but Warren grabbed him by one arm and lifted him off the ground. The child dropped his sword onto the ground and struggled to free himself from Warren's grip.
"Tell me your name, little one."
"My name–," the boy grunted and struggled, kicking at Warren, "is Zeke!"
"Tell me, how old are you Zeke?"
"I'm– 6, and I'm turning 7 sometime soon."
"Are you hungry, Zeke?"
The boy continued to struggle in Warren's grip as he answered, "A little."
"Let's go get some food then." Warren put him down and searched his bag for some fruit.
